Enferma

"Puedes probar si tengo fiebre?" I asked Vega, a girl who sits next to me in our History class. She put her hand on my forehead and told me yes, she thought I felt warm, and that I should go to the secretary. Celeste, one of her friends, said she'd go with me.

We walked in and I timidly told one of the secretaries that I felt bad. She put her hand to my head and said she didn't think I had a fever. Then a thin blonde woman came over. She did the same thing and retorted that I definitely had a fever. Then my math teacher happened to walk in. She also took the liberty of feeling my head. According to her, I didn't have a fever. Finally the first secretary produced a thermometer, ending the argument - for the time being.

In another room, I sat down and Celeste turned the thermometer on. She handed it to me and I stuck it under my tongue. Suddenly she looked bothered, and grabbed the thermometer from my mouth. "No, no, no," she said. "Ponla en tu axila!" Put it in your armpit. Oh. Gross. I sheepishly took back the thermometer and stuck in under my armpit, thinking of all the other armpits this thermometer had been in... When it beeped I checked the number. 45.6 degrees, roughly 115 degrees Farenheit. I was dead. We tried again, but didn't get a viable number. So, we went back to the secretary's office where the blonde woman announced that I needed to go home anyway, and that she was calling my family. Half an hour later Fonsey, my host mother, showed up. She asked me what was wrong and I told her I had a fever, and a minute later the first secretary popped her head through the window to tell her I didn't. In any case, Fonsey was taking me to the doctor.

Half an hour later I walked into an airy room with opera coming from the stereo in the corner. The doctor, a tall man with a gentle manner, began poking and prodding me in the usual way. After a few minutes he told me that my stomach hurt because I was stressed and that my throat was red and inflamed, though I hadn't complained about anything other than feeling feverish (for some reason he didn't check my temperature). He gave me a prescription for three different medicines. Fonsey and I thanked him and left, and as we walked down the street to pick up my medicine, I burst into tears. I certainly wasn't sad, but I was frustrated. All I knew was that I was burning and freezing and I wanted to go to sleep.

We arrived at Fonsey's parents house a little later. Fonsey had offered to take me all the way home, but she had work to do in the city, and in a few hours she'd have to pick up the girls from school, so I said I could sleep there for a few hours. I headed straight to the guest room, but just as I was pulling back the covers, Fonsey took me by the arm into the kitchen. She insisted that I had to eat something, sat me down, and put a bowl of macaroni and plate of chicken in front of me. "No, no puedo," I told her. My stomach hurt, I was queasy, and chicken and macaroni were the last things I could hold down. I tried to get up, but she stood behind my chair. Finally we agreed on a piece of bread and a banana, though I threw most of the bread away while she wasn't looking. After I finished I made my way back towards the guest room, desperate to get warm and to get some sleep.

I had one leg under the covers when Fonsey exclaimed, "No, no, no! Necesitas pijamas!" Pajamas? Not wanting to argue more, I waited by the bed - the beautiful, warm bed - as she rummaged through her parents' room for something for me to sleep in. Finally, she came back with what looked like her father's night shirt. Ok, I thought. Why not. Exhausted, I put on the shirt and then my fleece. Again, I tried to get into bed, but not before Fonsey stopped me. "You can't wear your fleece," she told me in Spanish. "You'll get too hot." I didn't bother protesting. She took my hand and told me that if I needed anything, I should call her. She left, I put my fleece back on, and I crawled under a heap of covers.

If I have learned anything from getting sick in Spain, it is that people hover. If there is something wrong, its everyone's business, and everyone has an opinion. I also learned that, if my host mother is any indication of the majority of Spanish mothers, the Spanish mother is very loving, but adamant. It was reassuring to know that Fonsey was so concerned, but I still felt homesick, wishing my mom was there to give me a bottle of gingerale, tell me I didn't have to eat right now, and let me sleep in whatever clothes I wanted.